laboured in vain. It was in vain, though, he said, as he looked out at
the flowing river. Had he gained a single advantage either for his
thoughts or his deeds by all his study of philosophy? In his weariness
he said to himself that he had not; that he had been far better able to
deal with questions of life, so long as he had only handled the exact
sciences, than he was now, through all this uncertain saturation of
foggy visions and contradictory speculations. Questions of life--but did
questions of life ever arise for him? He had reduced it all to its
simplest expression. His little store of money was safely invested, and
he drew the income four times a year. He possessed no goods or chattels
not stowed away in his garret chamber. He owed no man anything; he was
not even a regular professor, tied to his University by a fixed
engagement. In a word, he was perfectly free and untrammelled. To what
end? He worked on from force of habit; but work had long ceased to amuse
him. When had he laughed last? Probably not since his trip on foot to
the Bavarian Highlands, where he had met a witty journalist from Berlin,
with whom he had walked for a couple of days.

This evening he was more weary than usual. He almost thought he would go
away if he could think of any place to go to where life might be more
interesting. He had no relations excepting an uncle, who had emigrated
to America when Claudius was a baby, and who wrote twice a year, with
that regular determination to keep up his family ties which
characterises the true Northman. To this uncle he also wrote regularly
at stated intervals, telling of his quiet student-life. He knew that
this solitary relation was in business in New York, and he inferred from
the regular offers of assistance which came in every letter that he was
in good circumstances,--but that was all. This evening he fell to
thinking about him. The firm was "Barker and Lindstrand," he remembered.
He wondered what Mr. Barker was like. By the by it would soon be